


No Solace In Solitude

by Llaeyro



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Community: hprare_cliche, Depression, Fluffy Ending, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Second War with Voldemort, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llaeyro/pseuds/Llaeyro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is a hot mess. Harry’s just a mess—which apparently qualifies him to help George sort his life out, according to their family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Solace In Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to _melodic_ for the alpha help and basically slapping me with a wet fish when I started to doubt myself! Thanks go to Nazgirl for the ever-pernickety beta <3
> 
> [Read on LJ](http://hprare-cliche.livejournal.com/47420.html).

“George?”

Harry shifts his knees on the carpet in Grimmauld Place, but it doesn’t do any good. He still can’t see any sign of George in his flat. The sofa has been moved to face away from the fireplace, blocking his view.

“George, it’s Harry.” He pauses again, listening for any suggestion of his presence. When he hears what could have been a sniff, he continues. “I thought you might like to get drunk and eat Muggle takeaway tonight with someone who doesn’t wanna talk either.” He gives it a moment, hearing a little shuffling. “Anyway, I’ll bring the refreshments and be on your doorstep at seven. So let me in if you want, or I’ll just sit on the step and get drunk on the booze and fat on the pizza by myself.”

A muffled voice, throat sounding dry and croaky from lack of use, makes a sound that could be a ‘no’, but Harry isn’t sure. The sound came from closer than Harry had expected—possibly as near as the sofa.

“I’ll be there, you don’t have to let me in. You’ve got ‘til seven to think about it, anyway.” Harry’s about to withdraw his head from the fire, but a cough, like someone trying to clear their throat, stops him.

“Make it Chinese,” a weary voice says. With a small, relieved smile, Harry takes his leave.

~*~*~*~

Harry can’t shake the feeling that this is a really bad idea. He’s walking from the Chinese takeaway to the Leaky; mainly to give himself time to think and to calm down. It’s not working. The further he walks, the more he wants to Apparate back home. George is depressed—he has every right to be—and Chinese and beers aren’t going to fix it. 

George did ask for Chinese, which counts for something seeing as he’s refused to speak to anyone for weeks now. Molly’s going spare, which his why Harry has been cajoled into this. The Weasleys seem to be under the impression that Harry has recovered from the war. He doesn’t feel recovered, far from it. He’s just getting better at carrying on regardless. There’s no explaining that to Molly though, how could he? Harry’s return to perceived normality is the little ray of hope she has left to cling to. He checks around himself, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. He slips his wand down his sleeve to renew the warming charm on the takeaway bag. 

The fact that Harry still feels wholly responsible for Fred’s death isn’t exactly helping either. Part of him wonders if, more than for Molly, he’s actually doing this for himself. Maybe he’s trying to earn some sort of absolution for his part in George’s misery. The slithering tendrils of guilt start to work in his chest, looking for purchase, threatening to grab hold, to overwhelm him. Harry manages to push it aside for now. He raises his hood as he turns the corner, entering The Leaky Cauldron quietly. With just a brief, polite nod to Tom, he swiftly makes his way through the pub. If he can offer any sort of comfort to George, that’s a good thing, regardless of motive. He’s still trying to convince himself of that as he knocks on the door. He glances in the shop window as he waits. It looks abandoned. Well, he supposes it has been. It hasn’t been open in over a year, even the mail order business has been abandoned since the war.

Harry feels the tension in the air slacken as the wards drop and the door opens. He heads up the dim staircase and into the flat above the shop. The flat is a mess. Empty bottles, screwed up newspapers, empty crisp and biscuit packets and dirty clothes litter the living room. Glancing through to the kitchen as he passes, Harry is surprised to see it looking uncluttered. Even the sink is empty, however street light filtering through the grimy window shows a thin film of dust covering the worktop. As he moves further into the room, the bundle of blankets that Harry hadn’t been able to see on the sofa starts to move. George shifts to sit up a bit, legs still stretched out across the seats, as Harry steps into view. The room has a musty, sweaty, stale air to it.

George looks terrible. His hair is plastered to his scalp with grease, his t-shirt is stained, there’s crumbs all over his blankets, dark circles under his eyes, wrinkles that make him look older than his years and he doesn’t even seem to be wearing any trousers. Harry had expected this. The intense reek of alcohol catches him by surprise.

“Hey,” Harry says with a practised, casual air and a small smile.

“Hey,” George replies blankly, before eyeing the plastic bag.

“Chinese, and beers.” He holds up each bag in turn before placing them on the coffee table. “I’ll just grab some forks and that.”

He steps into the kitchen, taking a deep steadying breath to clear his mind. He has to stay together, for George. He’s only been to the flat a couple of times, before the war, and he realises he has no idea where anything is. When he opens the first drawer, looking for cutlery, he wishes he hadn’t. The photos of smiling twins and a mug with a large ‘F’ emblazoned on it catch his eye first. There’s a bowl, a couple of coasters, a pair of extendable ears, a packet of exploding snap cards, some bags of sweets. Stowed away, not in the hopes of forgetting, just to avoid the acute ache that comes with familiarity. He closes it gently and tries another, finding the cutlery. He pulls out a few forks and spoons then turns to the cupboards. Harry knows it would be easier to just eat out of the takeaway cartons and drink from the cans; it would certainly save on the washing up, but George has spent too long eating straight out the packet. He needs to start taking steps back toward dignified living, and Harry could gently poke him in the right direction. He stares between glasses and bowls for a moment. Deciding that there’s more reason for bowls, as it will make it easier to share dishes, he grabs two and heads back into the sitting room.

George has shoved the blankets aside, sitting in his pants and shirt. An open can of beer already rests on the floor beside his foot as he investigates the contents of the plastic trays. Harry hands George a bowl, fork and spoon.

“Ta,” he says as he takes it, eyes fixed on the food. Harry loads his own bowl with fried chicken noodles, beef with mushrooms, pork balls and a few triangles of prawn toast before looking for somewhere to sit. The armchair—Fred’s armchair, because George had always preferred to stretch out on the sofa—has been covered loosely with a sheet and then piled with delivered boxes, all unopened and addressed to the business. Harry stands awkwardly for a moment until George gives a grunt of acknowledgement around his forkful of crispy beef. He shoves his bowl down on the table and scoops up the blankets, chucking them haphazardly onto the boxes in the armchair.

“Cheers,” Harry says breezily, ignoring the crumbs and obviously worn socks strewn across the seat. George pulls the socks from under Harry, dropping them onto a collection of dirty clothes beside the sofa.

“Sorry, been a while since anyone’s been round here.”

He sounds kind of bitter. Harry wants to snap at him, tell him how much he’s been hurting everybody by pushing them away, but he knows that’s irrational and unhelpful. He’s glad George is keeping his eyes on his food, it gives him time to realise he’s frowning and relax his face.

“They want to come,” he replies gently.

“I know.” It’s practically a whisper.

They eat silently for a while. Harry tries to think of something to say, something that’s not about people or the war recovery or the state of the flat. Again he finds himself wondering why the hell he thought he was the right person to pull George out of his stupor.

“How do they get chicken like this? I mean, it only ever tastes like this in Chinese.” It’s ridiculous, it’s irrelevant, and Harry feels like an idiot as soon as he starts, but he can’t seem to stop babbling. “Do you think they use different breeds of chickens or something?”

There’s a moment of silence. George drops his spoon in his bowl, slowly turning to face Harry with a curious frown on his face.

“What?” asks Harry, slightly unnerved.

George chuckles. He chuckles some more. Harry stares at him in surprise and George laughs. He wipes tears from his eyes as he keeps laughing, seemingly unable to stop, and Harry can’t help but join in. He isn’t entirely sure why he’s laughing, but it’s infectious.

Eventually, the laughs start to subside. “Sorry,” George says, still wiping at his eyes, “I can’t even remember the last time I laughed.” He takes a large swig of his beer, placing it down and grabbing his spoon again, smiling at Harry. “It’s called velveting.”

“Eh?” Harry enquires round a mouthful of pork.

“The chicken. You whisk cornflour with egg whites and coat the chicken in it before you cook it.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Harry chuckles again, shaking his head in wonder.

George shoots him a tight smile and Harry waits. When George speaks again, he doesn’t look at Harry. “Fred bought me some cook books when we moved in.”

“I didn’t know you were into cooking.” Harry leans forward to put his empty bowl on the table, shoving empty takeaway cartons as well as stray food packets, that George had previously emptied, into the carrier bag before grabbing a beer.

“I wasn’t, exactly. I cast doubts on Fred’s domestic skills before we moved out of the Burrow.”

“Ah, and to Fred that was you volunteering to do the cooking and housework. I bet Fred’d have a few words to say about all this.” Harry grinned, waving his arm to vaguely indicate the state of the flat. George smiled, but looked slightly sheepish. “Don’t worry about it, you should have seen the state of my place a couple of months ago…”

George nods, looking at Harry wistfully. Harry starts to feel self-conscious so he hides behind his beer as he takes a few long swigs. George is still watching him.

“What?” Harry tries to smile, to not sound too defensive.

George gives an amused huff, laying down his own bowl and bringing his legs up onto the sofa to tuck behind him, leaning on the armrest. He doesn’t take his calculative gaze from Harry.

“You don’t flinch. When I talk about him. You didn’t pause while you thought about whether to say his name, or wince after you said it.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s stupid to think that saying Fred’s name will bring up bad memories or make you feel worse somehow. There’s not a second goes by you’re not thinking about him anyway.”

“For the love of Merlin, please tell Mum that,” George chuckles, but then his expression turns grim. “Sometimes, it feels like he was never here. Like he was just a figment of my imagination or something, because no one talks about him. That hurts more.”

Harry can understand that. At first he’d fought against it, forcing conversations about Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Lavender. Eventually he’d grown tired of the pained faces, the sighs and the swift changes of topic.

“Any time you want to talk about Fred, or silking chicken—”

“Velveting,” George chuckles softly.

“Yeah, whatever,” Harry grins, before looking at George seriously. “You can always owl me. For anything. Even if it seems like nothing.” His words sound hollow in his own ears. Harry quickly tries to think of something, anything, to show George how much he really means it. All of a sudden the foot-wide gap between them on the sofa feels like a mile and he scoots along the settee, placing his hand on George’s knee.

George bites his lip, staring at Harry’s hand upon his leg. “I just don’t know how to… be me, I guess. I don’t know who I am. I’ve always been one half of Gred and Forge and I don’t know how to be anything else. I never wanted to be anything else…” he sighs, shaking his head as if he knows that train of thought won’t lead anywhere useful. “I just want people to talk about him, y’know? Like it isn’t a big deal. Like he was here, and he mattered.” Brown eyes look up, meeting Harry’s gaze, intense and slightly desperate.

Harry shifts slightly closer still, moving his hand from George’s knee to cover the hand resting on his thigh, not breaking eye contact.

“He mattered.”

George smiles at him gratefully. He sits up a bit more, gaze flicking across Harry’s face. Harry starts to feel self-consciousness making way for panic, spreading through his chest, tight and threatening. His brain is bombarded with thoughts of having overstepped the boundaries, or had he? It feels as though he wants to get even closer to George. He wants to hold him. George kind of looks like he wants to be held, doesn’t he? But that would be weird, blokes can get funny about that sort of thing. He hugs Ron, but that’s just how things are between them. How are things between him and George? Harry really can’t say. It’s the first time he’s ever been alone with the guy. Why is he even worrying about this? They’re both far too unstable for a relationship. Is that what he’s thinking about? A relationship… with George? Harry can feel the confusion and worry building up like a physical pressure in his brain. He can’t think through it, he knows that any moment George might notice he’s having an internal freak-out. He needs an escape, just something to give him a minute, a distraction, a moment alone...

“Can I use your loo?” Harry asks suddenly, getting up and heading towards the bedroom without really waiting for an answer. As he pushes the door, he realises he probably should have waited; he has to go through George’s _bedroom_ after all. Well he’d look daft if he went back now. He goes in and closes the door softly behind himself.

Fred’s side of the room is untouched. His bed is lazily made and a cardboard box of bits and pieces—his coat, gloves, a few framed photos, a quill—sits at the foot of the bed. George’s duvet is missing; it’s probably in the living room somewhere, among the piles of blankets and clothing. His drawers are half open, a few items hanging out as if someone had grabbed an armful of clothes in a hurry. There’s dust along the top of the chest of drawers. Harry doesn’t think anyone has been in here for months.

The bathroom looks just as neglected. The closed toilet seat lid is dusty, which makes Harry furrow his brow. Okay, George probably avoids going into his and Fred’s bedroom, and you can’t get to the bathroom any other way, and George doesn’t look like he’s showered in quite a while… But he has to have been using the toilet, right? As Harry relieves himself, he notices the toilet paper holder only holds a cardboard tube. He glances around, but can’t see a spare roll anywhere. After washing his hands, he checks the potions cupboard above the sink but there’s none there either.

Harry returns to the living room, gently closing the bedroom door behind him. Hands free, he gives the end of the sofa a quick brush down this time before sitting. “You’re, er, outta bog roll. I can run out, if you want…”

“Nah, s’alright, I’ve er, I’m alright, thanks though.” A flush was growing across George’s cheeks and his eyes kept flicking to the corner of the room, along from the fireplace behind the sofa. Harry turned to look, glad the angle meant George can’t see his reaction when he lays eyes on the bucket in the corner, three toilet rolls stacked beside it. 

Harry doesn’t want to turn back just yet, he needs to get the pity off his face first. He feels embarrassed for George; as understandable as it is for him to be unable to walk through Fred’s room, he must feel a right tit regardless. He doesn’t need Harry making him feel worse. Time to think practically.

Turning back to face George, Harry leans back against the armrest, trying to look casual. “Seamus has started working at the Ministry, Department of Building Regulations. I bet he’d know someone who could come flip your bathroom round in a few minutes. Y’know, so your guests can use it without having to go through your bedroom. More practical.”

“Sounds great,” George replies. Harry doesn’t expect George to believe his reasoning, but the small smile tells him that his feigned ignorance is appreciated anyway. “Might need to tidy up a bit first though…”

“I can help out, if you like.”

“Thanks but I’m sure the last thing you want to spend your time on is cleaning up your mate’s brother’s flat,” he says with something between a smile and a grimace. Harry has the feeling that George is only refusing to be polite, so he decides to push the point.

“Tell you what, I’ll help you get this place sorted and you can teach me to cook. Deal?”

“Deal,” George smiles, shaking Harry’s hand firmly. Their hands and gaze stay clasped for slightly longer than seems natural to Harry. As George pulls away, there’s the swiftest hint of something in that look. Harry takes a deep breath and launches his thoughts into speech before he can change his mind.

“I’m not just here because you’re Ron’s brother, y’know?” George raises an eyebrow and Harry knows what he’s thinking. “And not because of your Mum either, I’m here because I care about you.” Harry isn’t sure about the sudden change in George’s expression at that. He doesn’t have time to decipher it, panic is building inside him, so he just keeps babbling. “I mean, we’re mates, right? Not just because of Ron, but because we, well y’know, we just get along, don’t we?” Harry can barely hear himself over his heavy pulse thundering in his ears, but whatever that look on George’s face was, it’s been replaced with a comfortable lop-sided smile so Harry finally manages to convince his bloody tongue to stop moving. Harry wonders if he should have spent a moment longer in the bathroom, seeing as apparently his brain wasn’t done being an idiot. At least George doesn’t seem to mind; he’s laughing again and Harry’s worries melt into nothingness.

~*~*~*~

Harry cannot get out of bed today. He’s been laying here for about two hours. It doesn’t matter that his tummy has been audibly growling at him for at least half that time; it still isn’t enough reason to move. His limbs feel impossibly heavy. He knows that once he gets going, he can do it, and it won’t be as impossible as it now seems. Merlin knows he’s been here and out the other side enough times. But then again, that’s part of the problem, really. What’s the point if, no matter how many times he struggles through, he always ends up back here again? He’s not even sure what’s set him back this time.

Harry waits until his bladder is fit to burst, finally making his way from his bedroom and down the stairs. Hermione has, at long last, stopped insisting that it isn’t healthy for Harry to take on Sirius’s old room. She didn’t even bring it up last week when he had asked her to spell the bathroom on the same floor closed. She gave him the look of course, the concerned sympathy, but she didn’t argue or press for an explanation. She just did it. And it worked. Trying to lift the locking charm would take too long. After going down to the next nearest bathroom and relieving himself, Harry can’t find the energy to go back up to bed—down is so much easier. So now he’s out of bed.

After a half hearted wash, Harry summons some comfy clothes and drags them on before heading down to the kitchen. Even calling for Kreacher feels like too much effort—the elf would only want to know what he wants, and then judge him for his poor decision. Harry doesn’t even know what he wants. He doesn’t want anything. He’s fully aware that it doesn’t make any sense, as he feels painfully hungry, but he can’t think of anything in the world he actually wants to eat. After staring absently at the chilled shelves in the pantry for a while, he settles for a glass of milk and a few slices of toast with marmalade.

Harry still doesn’t want to drink. He still doesn’t know why. It’s as if he’s afraid that, if he opens his mouth to put anything in it, he’ll feel sick or something. But he doesn’t feel sick at all, so that’s ridiculously illogical. Regardless, something’s stopping Harry from wanting to open his mouth. He holds the glass up and places his closed mouth against the rim. Tilting the glass slightly, he lets the cold white liquid sit against his pursed lips. He puts the glass down.

When the urge gets too much, Harry licks the milk from his lips. He picks up his glass and starts drinking properly and now it’s as though he can’t get enough. He drains the glass in one and quickly scoffs his toast. For the first time today, although he’s sure it won’t be the last, Harry asks himself what the fuck is wrong with his brain.

For a moment, Harry is glad that George suggested they take a day off today. The moment doesn’t last. His logical brain knows that, if he had been going around there today, he would have got up this morning. He wouldn’t be sitting here, gone one in the afternoon, eating breakfast. Now, he’ll either have to skip a meal or go to bed late: either of which will set him up for another bad start tomorrow.

Harry misses George. He identifies that as another illogical thought—he spent all day yesterday with the guy, and will probably spend all day tomorrow with him too. Maybe he’s stressing because today’s different. He’s alone, with nothing specific he needs to do. Not that he spends every day with George, exactly. Just those days happen to be the only good days Harry has. On those days, he has to get up, washed, dressed, fed and out because George needs him. It was probably the same for George. Harry felt a pang at the image of George sprawled on the crumb-strewn sofa in a dirty t-shirt and pants, under a soiled blanket again.

No. George wouldn’t let himself slip that far in just one day. He’ll be on the clean sofa, in a clean t-shirt and pants, under a clean blanket. And that’s okay. We’re all entitled to a pyjama day every once in awhile. As long as it was that—every once in awhile.

Maybe Harry should call him, just in case…

Pack it in. Irrational thoughts again.

Before he can get too frustrated with himself, Harry takes a deep breath and focuses on how much he has improved in just a few short months ago. He used to fly off the handle over absolutely nothing. At least his intrusive thoughts now are pretty mild and easily pushed aside. One of the most alarming had been a sudden urge to shove Hermione backwards into the lit fireplace, and why? For being concerned—very rightly so, as it turned out—and trying to help. 

No one can help. Not directly. But Harry has discovered he can use them as motivation to help himself. _‘If Hermione sees me in this state, she’ll start interfering again… better get dressed.’_ George has really perked up since Harry let him in on that trick. They’ve even been down in the shop, sorting the out of date stock and moving towards re-opening. George has already been panicking that he won’t be able to invent on his own, especially not in his current frame of mind. Harry keeps assuring him that one day at a time is the best way to get through. Harry really does believe it—even if he doesn’t ever manage to stick to it himself.

The dark part of his mind doesn’t like seeing George make progress. As much as Harry insists, within his own mind, that he really does want what’s best for George, there’s still that bloody irrational voice in the background. It skulks around those dark corners, planting worries, feeding them with anxieties and watering them with self-doubt. What will Harry do when George doesn’t need him any more? How can Harry possibly justify the effort needed to get out of bed, if not for George needing him? It’s this particularly selfish train of nonsense that doesn’t want George to heal. Not completely. 

Not that it stops Harry from trying his hardest to help George; after all, he really does care about the guy and want what’s best for him. Underneath it all though, there’s the hope that a day when George doesn’t need him anymore will never come.

Who knows, maybe it’ll turn out that Harry is what’s best for George, after all?

Harry can’t help but laugh out loud at that thought. 

As if.

~*~*~*~

Harry wakes up, immediately aware that when he tries to move, it’s going to hurt. His neck is at a weird angle, his feet are cold against the bare wood floor and his right arm is pinned between his body and whatever he’s leaning against. With a groan, he reluctantly cracks open an eye to confirm what he suspected—he fell asleep at George’s again, huddled at one end of the sofa. The poorly wrapped presents and nearly empty reels of Christmas paper strewn across the coffee table and floor remind Harry of last night. It’s been hard to get ready for Christmas, for both of them, which is why it ended up being such a last minute panic. It had made it easier, knowing George really didn’t want to be shopping and wrapping either.

His neck is stiff, it hurts too much to fully straighten up at the moment, and his dead arm is quickly developing a bad case of pins and needles. Harry tentatively stretches with a yawn and becomes aware of a weight against his leg. Harry manages to straighten his neck enough to look down at George. His legs are draped over the arm of the sofa and his head is resting comfortably on Harry’s thigh. There’s a small frown on his face. Harry wants to touch him, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t said anything about the weight that has been dropping off George lately, or how his skin is less pasty, less greasy, but he has noticed. He hasn’t said anything about the fact that the dark rings under George’s eyes are just as prominent than ever, either. George has mentioned that he doesn’t sleep well, but Harry could tell he wasn’t ready to talk about it. Harry still has enough nightmares of his own, so that’s probably a good thing. Sometimes he wakes up feeling drained and exhausted with no idea why. Those days are better, in a way, than the mornings he wakes up knowing. The mornings plagued with imagined images of the dead and dying, mingled with memories and tainted by fears.

George starts to stir, and Harry leans over the armrest, feining sleep. If he’d unconsciously cuddled up to George in his sleep, the last thing he’d want would be for George to wake up before him and realise it. After a bit of light shuffling, George suddenly bolts up and swings his legs off the sofa, sitting up and rubbing at his bleary eyes. Harry yawns to hide his smile and starts to shift as if only just waking.

“Mornin’,” George smiles, looking pretty relaxed. Harry doesn’t see that often.

“Morning,” Harry returns, wincing as he rubs at his neck, “We have to remember to transfigure the sofa next time, my neck’s killing me.”

“Well, it’s not like we plan our sleepovers,” George shifts closer to Harry, nudging him to lean forward. “They tend to be rather impromptu.” George’s hands settle where Harry’s neck meets his shoulders, thumbs rubbing firmly up both sides of his neck. Harry’s immediate reaction is to panic and stiffen, but George’s hands feel really good and he wills himself to relax. George is just a really considerate, hands-on sort of guy. Harry has a crick in his neck. Nothing to panic about, no point reading into anything. He should be happy to have someone who is this comfortable with him. Actually, he is happy about that.

Well, fancy that.

Harry hisses through his teeth as George increases the pressure on the troublesome side. He goes at it slightly lighter, but doesn’t give up until Harry’s shoulders lose their tension and he starts to hum with contentment. When George’s hands drop away, Harry hides his disappointed sigh in another yawn and stretch.

“Cheers, feels a lot better now. Breakfast?” Harry casts a quick refreshing charm; he has no clean clothes here anyway, so he’ll have a shower at home before heading over to the Burrow.

“Eh, better just have a bit of toast or something. Best not to fill up when Mum’s cooking to feed the five thousand.”

“Yeah, and best make it quick, you know how she gets when someone’s a bit late these days.” 

“Especially if it’s me.” George tightens his lips, then with a sigh makes his way to the bathroom. Harry heads into the kitchen to make breakfast. Molly has never said so, but it’s pretty clear she’s been worried that George might be suicidal. George bitterly joked to Harry that topping himself doesn’t actually sound like a bad idea, compared to a lifetime with his mother constantly on tenterhooks. Harry knows how he feels—Molly’s so sensitive, it’s rather exhausting to be around her.

Harry casts a warming charm on one plate of toast and mug of coffee, then heads into the living room with his own. He stops in front of the sofa, looking up to the sound of a door opening. George is stepping from the bathroom, one towel hanging from his slender hips as he haphazardly dries his hair with another. Pulling the towel away from his face, he spots Harry staring.

“What?” he asks casually.

“Er, your toast and coffee’s keeping warm on the side.” Harry sits and stuffs toast in his mouth before George can ask him any more questions.

“Ta,” George smiles, slings the towel in his hand back into the bathroom and wanders into the kitchen. Harry wonders if it was more of a smirk, actually. He makes quick work of his toast and juice so that he can get back to Grimmauld Place and get ready for The Burrow; last thing he needs is to let his gaze linger over a half-naked George when he’s got to share a room with him tonight.

~*~*~*~

“Are you sure about this Harry? I mean, I don’t mind bunking up with George if you’d rather take the camp bed into Percy’s room.”

“No, really, it’s fine,” insisted Harry once again, thrusting the folded bed towards Bill. It wasn’t ideal, but needs must. He couldn’t fault Bill for his change of plan. Of course, he and Fleur had looked forward to their first Christmas together, as Christmas didn’t really happen for anyone last year, with all the goings on. When it had come down to it though, Bill hadn’t felt right not being with his family for their first Christmas without Fred. Bill hadn’t worded it that way when he’d arrived before dinner, of course, but they could all read between the lines.

It was a bit of a logistical nightmare though. Molly had already promised Bill’s room to Harry and George, with Harry using the camp bed. Harry knew they’d been put in there, not just because Bill hadn’t planned to come over until Boxing Day, but also so that George didn’t have to walk past his old bedroom. Fred and George’s room didn’t enter the equation, there was an unspoken understanding about that. Yet all this didn’t stop Percy from kicking up a fuss when it was suggested that he share his bed with Bill. Which is why, in the end, Harry felt he had to offer up the camp bed.

It’s no real hardship actually, Harry muses as he turns around to see George getting into bed in just his pants. They get on really well, they see each other practically every day and George is actually quite fit.

Okay, so maybe there might be _one_ hard aspect of sharing a bed with George, Harry thinks wryly.

He climbs in the bed and after a good bit of shuffling and pillow shaping, drifts off to sleep.

Harry wakes with a start, sitting up quickly to move away from whatever just whacked him in the side. There’s hardly any light in the room but he quickly realises that George is having a nightmare. Harry tucks his wand back under his pillow and lays down again on his side to face him. As he gently sweeps the hair from George’s face, he notices how clammy George’s skin is.

“Fred?” George asks distantly, quietly, the single syllable thick with emotion. Harry realises George is crying in his sleep.

“George,” he whispers, “George, it’s okay, you’re okay…” His limbs slow down their jerking, but he continues to mumble and whimper. “George…” Harry wriggles closer, gently stroking his hand up and down George’s arm. “You’re alright. It’s a dream.” George kicks out again, with a louder groan this time, and Harry works one arm under the pillow to pull George against his chest. He drapes his other arm over George’s side. “I’ve got you. It’s over. I’ve got you…”

He feels a change in George’s body, as if awareness is slowly filtering in. Harry thinks that he should back away before George realises and gets embarrassed about it all, but he doesn’t get a chance.

“Fred!” George shouts, shoving Harry off him with a palm to the chest, half-sitting to get a look at him in the murky light of predawn, fingers still tangled in Harry’s nightshirt. Harry stares back at him, wide-eyed and confused. “Harry…” George sighs, then, “Harry!” he whispers urgently as he falls back against Harry, wrapping his arm tightly around him, clinging desperately as fresh sobs wrack his body. Startled, Harry doesn’t respond for a moment. When he does, he lays an arm across George’s waist and with his other hand, arm trapped beneath George’s neck, gently strokes his hair.

“I’ve got you, George.”

With a sniff, he looks up at Harry. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Harry replies with a small nod.

Then George kisses him. Just briefly, wetly. _Why’s it always wet?_

When George leans in again, Harry tips his chin up. He places a firm, lingering kiss on George’s forehead.

“Sleep now,” he whispers. George nods and settles down, pressed against Harry’s chest. Tangled together, they drift into peaceful dreams

When Harry wakes, he can hear birds tweeting outside, so it must be dawn. He quickly becomes aware of George trying to extricate himself from Harry’s embrace.

“Morning,” he yawns, tightening his grip around George’s middle.

“Oh Merlin,” George groans, “Look Harry, last night—”

“You were upset from a nightmare,” Harry interjects, chin still resting lightly on George’s head.

“Well, yeah, and I—”

“And _I_ didn’t want to take advantage of that.”

“Oh... right. We good, then?”

Harry was waiting for the familiar panic to set in; the doubting, the intrusive thoughts, the illogical interpretations—nothing came. When it comes to George, things just seem rather easy. It’s been that way for a while now. They both have their ghosts, but who doesn’t these days? It doesn’t seem to matter like it once did.

“Not quite.” Harry leans back slightly, bringing up his hand to George’s chin, gently lifting his gaze to Harry’s. Their eyes close and their lips meet, softly, slowly. Harry is very aware of a growing bulge against his thigh, which is very encouraging, but he keeps the kiss sweet. There’s no sense in rushing. Harry pulls away slightly to whisper against George’s lips, “Now we’re good.”

George looks up and a grin creeps across his face as he sits up a bit. “You know what, Harry my old mate, I think you’re quite right. We’re going to be alright.” With that, he shoves Harry onto his back and proceeds to snog him silly.

And that’s just fine with Harry.

_Fin_


End file.
